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men trip
over the same step
walking away from me
measured the distance
the algebra of a stumble
in the crook of his smile
when he asks “come I back to yours”
a pi-r squared jaw sets
against the drop   the realisation      
everything that can fall is named potential.
run my tongue along proofs, maybe
spit out something more succinct
purely mathematical
sweat on my lips
but that’s never put me off finding
the answer in the night
heartbeating against ambition
what’s a greater cause than making reason
out of the lines of the universe
what’s learning to love again
if not rounding out the detritus
walking towards me
over the same step
men trip
coqueta Nov 2022
You are velvet under my fingertips, honey on my tongue.
So, love me.
Everything about you is lovable. Everything about you draws me in. Love me. Love me. Pour your love out onto me, kiss me with the kisses of your mouth, lavishing them from my neck to my thighs, tasting soft, supple skin. Love me. Let me take you in. Let me kiss the expanse of your chest, let me caress your sweet, endearing face, love me, love me, let me pour my love out over you, onto you, into you. I want to hear how much you love how I love you.

I don't.

I want to press kisses against all your bruises. You make me so soft. You're so pitiful it's endearing. My poor boy. My poor poor boy. Please don't cry, or I'll want to comfort you. Please don't look so sad. Don't look like you love me, or it might make me love you.
Instead of writing my essay I’m writing poetry :,)
Oskar Erikson Aug 2022
Your name
has been locked into
the secret dimension
inside my mouth
known only by our tongues.

so i keep searching
7 months out
since losing my only key

trying to find another
to fit
the last remnant of us
out of me.
CIN Mar 2022
Remember that night?
The soft glow of the tv reflecting blue on the walls
Our tongues dancing to the music
That played in the background
I had you pinned the wrong way round on the bed
Your head between my arms
Every part of us touching
I could feel the heat on your skin
The melody of your heartbeat
You tasted like the cherry sucker I gave you
An hour before
Oh, how I used to drown in your melancholy

Yet now all I feel is water
Little drops from the shower
While I stare at what never was
The music of your breathing still plays in my ears
When the night is quiet enough
Sometimes I swear I still feel your skin
But the moment passes and I’m left with this cold sort of feeling
An empty swell in my chest
A tingle behind my eyes
You are nothing but dull memories now
Nothing but a thought of remembrance
the events are fiction but the emotions are real
Caosín Mar 2022
I have, on my youtube, playlists of men.

allow me to excuse myself, but it's not for fun and pleasure
it's quite the opposite, it's for my displeasure
but that's not entirely true.

I have them there
to remind me
that those men
will never be
me. I will never
Kiss someone
Hold someone
Love someone
like they do for eachother.

It's a feeling deep within my bones, a longing not to be ignored, a longing to hold and to be held. To kiss and be kissed.
to love
and be loved...
in a certain kinda way.
hahaha gay funee amirite
agatha Dec 2021
I wish I could have kissed you
the moment I saw you
in real life for the first time;
something like
running into your arms
and letting the world
turn into static,
only focusing on you.
Only you.

But that would have been
too dramatic. Maybe
you'd get shy all of a sudden
or think I am too forward.
So I just held your hand—
warm like a heavy blanket
and evidently bigger
than mine. Enveloping my hand
in the most comfortable of ways,
like some missing puzzle piece
that was bound to be together
no matter what.

That would have appeased me
don't you think?

No. Not really.
I have nothing to say.
I still want to kiss you.
Clarissa Oct 2021
Made a fool of myself
But I don’t even care
Can’t help but smile
At these chocolate eyes

Will I get to taste
These sugarly lips?
How much time I’ll waste
On the „overthings”?
Probably ****** it up though:(
SophiaAtlas Sep 2021
Normal people kissing:
Butterflies in your stomach
You're the only two people in the world

People with glasses kissing:
Ok let's take them off
Wait, where'd you go?
You feel cold
Oh, that's a lamp.
tap Aug 2021
The sunlight winks from behind the umbrella of leaves and mangoes overhead. It tickles your cheekbones like the first, second, thirtieth good morning kiss. Your sandals are worn. A woven basket rests heavy on your hip, in your hands.

Your fingers, slender and worn by the earth, trace the contours of my face the way they search for meaning in a dictionary. Gravity. We inch closer. Have you always had a widow’s peak? Your hand finds it rightful place over my heart. I kiss you for the thirty-first time today. You taste of plantains and milk. You smell of sweat and the sun. My hand relishes in the traces of heat on your cheek.

One mango drops from your possession. Unripe, but soon to be opened up and worshipped as it is meant to be. Your fingers grasp the yellowing heart and press it against my lips. I rest against the trunk and sink my teeth into it. Liquid sunrise trickles down your wrist onto my blouse. The leaves create shadow puppets on the ground, the story of two young fools swaying in the shade of a tree.
Alternatively titled, "Girl from the suburbs tries to write about a farmgirl from a painting."

Inspired by "The Fruit Pickers Under the Mango Tree" by Fernando Amorsolo.

I’ve never made out with anyone under a tree. I might be missing out, dude.
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